


The Die For Our Ship Affair

by dragon_slayer



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fix-It, M/M, Post-Canon, Slow Build, The Final Affair, picks up right after the novel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-03 06:54:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5281001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragon_slayer/pseuds/dragon_slayer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the demise of Thrush and his second wedding to his previously believed dead wife, nothing could be better for Napoleon Solo.</p><p>Well, other than the fact that Mr. Waverly is dead, Illya has returned to the Soviet navy, his new/old wife Joan might not be how he remembered her, and now he's started to act...off.  The last of these is particularly worrying to Lisa Rogers and April Dancer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Die For Our Ship Affair

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to the unpublished The Final Affair. http://www.spywise.net/pdf/jan_10/TheFinalAffair.pdf
> 
> The title of this fic is a joke that has gone too far.

The first time the phrase _I’ve made a terrible mistake_ passed through Napoleon Solo’s mind when he woke up the morning after asking Joan to marry him again.

His throbbing hangover had managed to synchronize with the throbbing in his right leg, still healing from the fight on Thrush Island, and together they kept him from going back to sleep.  Instead, Napoleon reluctantly threw off the blanket and tottered over to the bathroom.  He splashed cold water on his face.  It helped to clear the fuzziness out of his brain.  Napoleon looked at his reflection and tried to piece the previous night back together.  

He had proposed to Joan.  He remembered that clearly.  Ever since finding out she was still alive he had been thinking of what it would be like to be her husband again, and there on the balcony overlooking Manhattan, at the restaurant they had gone to celebrate the success of the mission, he had taken the plunge and done it.  There was no planning involved, but Joan had not cared.  She had said yes.  They had ordered champagne.  And then more champagne.  It was a miracle that they had made it back to his penthouse.

Joan was still asleep, so Napoleon crept his way as quietly as possible to the living room, grabbing his robe off the back of a chair as he passed.  The air in the room was cold on his skin but not unpleasantly so.  He went to the phone near the kitchen.  Napoleon had to tell someone.  The first time he had gotten engaged, nearly twenty years ago, it had been his mother who he had first told, but Napoleon really did not want to have the conversation with her yet about why Joan was not dead.  Not with this hangover anyway.  That was a conversation that he had to prepare for.  For one, they would need a convincing cover story.  No, the real obvious choice to tell was Illya.  The Russian’s number was dialed by pure muscle memory.

The phone picked up in the middle of the second ring.  “Kuryakin here.”  The words were husky with sleep.

“Well aren’t you cheery this morning?”

“Napoleon, it is six am.”

Napoleon glanced over at the clock on his oven.  6:07 blinked back at him.  He had thought it was later.  “So it is,” he said.

“Did you call for a specific reason or just because you hate the thought of other people sleeping in?” Illya asked.

Napoleon stared at the receiver.  Now that he was actually on the phone with Illya, he could not bring himself to tell the blond the news.  For some reason it struck him as wrong.

“Napoleon?”

“I’m getting married!” Napoleon forced out.  His cheeriness barely sounded false at all to his own ears.

“You’re what?”  Even over the poor connection, Illya’s incredulousness was obvious.  All traces of sleepiness in his tone were gone.

“Married!  To Joan,” Napoleon said.  After a pause he added unnecessarily, “Again.”

“...congratulations.”

“You’re going to be best man, of course,” Napoleon said, plowing on ahead.  He tried to ignore what must be the rising feeling of cold feet.  It had to be.  There was no other reason he should feel so terrible about telling his closest friend about this.

“Happily.”  Illya sounded anything but.

The rest of the conversation passed quickly.  There were not any other details to share anyway.  Later, Napoleon was unable to recall any bit of it.  Illya sounded odd, but then, he probably just wanted to get back to sleep.  Napoleon was just hanging up when Joan appeared.  She laid her head on his shoulder.

“How do you feel about pink and grey for wedding colors?” Joan said dreamily.  Napoleon smiled at her, all misgivings forgotten.

*****

A month later, Table Four was watching the best man’s speech unfold like it was a trainwreck none of them could look away from no matter how much they wanted to.

It was not that Illya’s speech was bad.  It was, in fact, quite pleasant, if oddly vague in many parts.  To most of the guests gathered, it must have sounded exactly as they expected from someone wishing their best friend happiness.  Unfortunately, Table Four was made up of several members of UNCLE's New York office’s senior staff.

Lisa Rogers took another swig of champagne to hide her grimace.  At the rate this speech was going, she was going to have none left for the actual toast.  She had already run out of water during Illya recollections of his entirely fictional first meeting with Napoleon.  Del Floria, next to her, kept wincing every time Illya stopped for breath.  The rest of the table were not doing much better, with Mandy from communications nervously giggling every few seconds and Andreas Petros looking ready to die of secondhand embarrassment.

April Dancer had decided to forgo all subtly.  She was wearing the same black dress she wore to every UNCLE agent funeral, accessorized with a look of open disdain.  Mark Slate was also wearing his normal funeral attire (Lisa deeply suspected that that was April’s doing), but he had at least had the decency to switch out the black tie for a red and blue striped one.  Out of everyone at Table Four, he was doing the best at looking like he was enjoying the reception, but he had also been a field agent the longest.  Only his foot’s nervous tapping gave away how uncomfortable Mark actually was.

“And I would like to offer a toast to the happy couple,” Illya said, raising his glass and blessedly bringing his speech to an end.  The forced cheer in his voice was physically painful to hear.  Lisa drained the rest of her champagne in one gulp.

The maid of honor got up and began an even more vapid speech.  Lisa vaguely wondered who the woman was.  Joan’s cover story of having amnesia for two decades did not lend itself to close friendships.  As awful as Lisa thought Napoleon’s decision to remarry the woman was, she did not have such a low opinion of him that he would have let more Thrush personale into the wedding party.

“They’re holding hands,” April said, staring at the sweetheart table like how one looked at cockroaches.  “I’m going to vomit.”

“Napoleon is our friend, coworker, and now superior.  We should support him in whatever decisions he makes,” Petros said in an undertone.  He sounded like he did not believe a word coming out of his mouth.

“Maybe she isn’t so bad,” Mandy said optimistically.

April sneered.  “She was a nasty little bird for twenty years, Mandy.  We’re supposed to believe that her love for Napoleon magically made her good?  Sorry, but he’s not _that_ handsome.   _No one_ is that handsome.”

That, of course, was the real issue.  Lisa could have dealt with Napoleon breaking Illya’s heart.  She had honestly sort of been expecting that for years (really ever since Mr. Waverly had finally spelled out to her that the Russian was carrying a torch the size of the Statue of Liberty’s for his partner).  It was not Napoleon’s fault if he did not return the affection.  Besides, Illya really did want Napoleon to be happy.  That was the only part of his speech that had sounded at all sincere.

What she could not abide by was Napoleon Solo deciding to marry a Thrush agent, even a former one.  Joan did seem pleasant on the surface.  There was nothing outwardly about the woman that said she was not honest in her defection from Thrush.  Further, she had been invaluable in the Thrush Island raid.  But two decades in their employ was not something just suddenly overcome by being reunited with a lost love.  Joan had fully admitted to having been part of the organization before she had ever heard the name Napoleon Solo, that she had originally been sent to seduce him when Napoleon was only a prospective recruit of UNCLE's.  Her story of having actually fallen in love with him back when they were little more than teenagers was a sweet story, but that just raised the question of why she was willing to defect now rather than after their first wedding.  If Lisa had not known for a fact that Napoleon had been tested for every mind altering drug they knew of, she would have thought it was chemicals making him an idiot over the woman.  

On the other hand, it was not as if Thrush existed anymore anyway.  Joan had helped make that happen.

The maid of honor had also finally come to the conclusion of her inane speech.  Thankfully a waiter was refilling all of the champagne.  He was the real hero of the afternoon.  Getting through the rest of the reception sober was a fate no one at Table Four wanted.  Del Floria patted the boy’s arm like he was his favorite grandson.  

“And now,” the dj cried over the cheap speakers, “if the bride and groom would like to make their way to the dancefloor, it is time for their first dance as Mr. and Mrs. Solo!”

Lisa did not recognize the cheesy love ballad that started playing.  Napoleon took Joan in his arms and began swaying softly to the music.  If it were anyone else, Lisa would have thought the dance kind of adorable.  The groom was still using a crutch and was trying not to fall on his face.  Instead, Napoleon kept focusing on making Joan spin.  She was a pink cloud of taffeta, laughing happily.  Lisa snuck a glance at Illya.  It was a good thing no one else was looking at the best man, because it looked like every twirl of the bride was ripping out Illya’s heart.  Amusingly, a few seats down from Illya, the mother of the groom looked like she wanted to throw a chair at the bride.  It was good to know that there were people outside of UNCLE that cared for Joan as little as they did.

The ballad ended and another, faster paced number started up.  Other couples started to join Napoleon and Joan.  Lisa got up and walked swiftly to Illya.

“Dance with me?” she asked only as a courtesy.  Illya had no chance to reply before she grabbed his good arm and dragged him up.

“If you insist,” Illya said.

She led him over to a spot on the edge of the dance floor, as far away from Napoleon and Joan as it was possible to be while still staying on it.  Dancing with someone whose left arm was still in a sling was not the most awkward thing Lisa had ever done.  Given their mutual lack of dancing experience, it was not as if it was impeding anything.  The two of them gently rocked from side to side to the music.

“So, are you really going back to the Soviet Union?” Lisa asked after a moment.  Being the secretary for a section chief meant she got to see all of the reports before anyone else.

Illya did not look surprised that she knew.  “Only for a few months.  Then I’ll be in China.”

“It won’t be the same around the office without you.”

“Napoleon doesn’t need me anymore,” Illya said.  There was so much subtext in that sentence and Lisa was far too tipsy to unpack it at the moment.  The song drew to a close.

“Don’t get yourself killed, Kuryakin,” Lisa said, her voice rough with the tears she was refusing to shed.  She hugged him tightly.

“I’ll do my best, Rogers,” he said, hugging back.  Illya pulled away and checked his watch.  “I’m sorry but have to say my goodbyes to Napoleon.”

*****

“I’ll probably be in China next summer.  My Moscow address will stay valid, but there may be delays in forwarding,” Illya said.

_I’ve made a terrible mistake._

The words only remained in Napoleon’s head for a split second before being replaced with _Illya is making a terrible mistake_.  That made more sense.  He was the one going to China after all.  Napoleon tried not to dwell on how it felt like a betrayal for Illya to leave now after so much was changing.  It was not as if Illya could control where the Soviet Union sent him.  Then Joan was at his shoulder, and it was so much easier to focus on her.  The wedding dress she had chosen was lovely.  Far easier on the eyes than a Soviet naval uniform.

*****

Across the lawn, sitting alone at one of the tables in the back, a woman with an ID reading Irene Adler watched the newly promoted vice admiral walk towards the waiting taxi.  Joan was already pulling Solo back to the reception.

The woman smiled coyly and took another sip of champagne.  She had spent the last month trying to figure out some covert way to assassinate Kuryakin without raising anyone’s suspicions, right up until the moment her satrap had uncovered the correspondence to and from the Soviet Union.  Kuryakin was so graciously removing himself from the equation.  It was a far better outcome than she would have ever let herself dream.

 _Yes_ , Dr. Egret thought as she took another sip of champagne, _the future was very bright indeed._

*****

Napoleon’s honeymoon lasted two weeks.  He had been reluctant to take it but Lisa had pointed out that he was still technically on medical leave until Christmas so it was not like he was supposed to be working during that time anyway.  Besides, the New York headquarters had been getting a lighter workload than normal to help give everyone time to adjust to the new status quo.  

Joan had decided that they should go somewhere tropical and sunny.  She was very fond of swimming.  Not that it made much of a difference; neither of them left the hotel for the first three days they were there.  For those three days, everything was perfect.

It was only when one of them suggested trying to engage in some other activity that things went downhill.

*****

Lisa straightened the files on the table and sighed.  She checked the clock again.  Napoleon was not due in for another fifteen minutes.

Being Mr. Waverly’s assistant for years had ingrained a need to be the first one in and the last out.  That said, she had still gotten to the office two hours earlier than normal.  Napoleon’s first day back was going to be hectic with the amount of information they were going to get through.  She shuddered at the thought of how much worse it would have been if he had actually waited out the full medical leave rather than coming back now, only a week after his honeymoon had ended.

Napoleon arrived ten minutes later.  Their greetings were brief, both anxious to get started.

The morning passed quickly.  Thankfully, it turned out that Napoleon really had been reading the reports she had been sending him while he was on leave.  Getting him fully up to speed on the state of UNCLE took almost no time.  It was going over the current operations in progress that took forever.  Details were gone over with a fine tooth comb.  It was past lunch when the two of them finally decided to take a break and the first real opportunity for small talk.

“How was the honeymoon?” Lisa asked only out of politeness.  She straightened up the conference table.

Surprisingly, Napoleon frowned.  “Good,” he said.  It sounded oddly confused.  “Most of it’s a blur, but I think it was good.”

Lisa noticed that Napoleon kept rubbing his forehead.  “Are you alright?” she asked.

“Just a migraine.”  He waved her off.  “Couldn’t get a whole lot of sleep last night.”

Lisa silently went and retrieved some aspirin.  Napoleon gratefully took them.  She asked, “Will that be all, sir?”

“Yes.”  Napoleon started to wave her off when he stopped and said, “Actually no.  I need a change of address form.”

“You’re moving?”

“Already have.”  Napoleon’s smile was mildly unfocused.  “Joan and I bought a house on Staten Island!”

*****

It was the little things, like moving to Staten Island or Napoleon mentioning that he was giving up sailing, that started to unnerve Lisa.  Napoleon kept bouncing between being hesitant to discuss his marriage to looking like he had taken one to many of Cupid’s arrows to the face.

The problem was that, while Lisa considered Napoleon a friend, they had never been really close outside of work (in fairness, working for UNCLE did not lend itself to having much of a personal life to begin with).  Trying to judge what was and was not normal with him was hard.  There was almost no one else to ask either.  Napoleon Solo, whether because of his occupation or some aspect of his personality, wore a mask around everyone in his life to varying degrees.  He was playing the part of himself.  There was only one person that Napoleon ever truly let the façade down around.  And he was on the other side of the world.

With no other choice, Lisa tried to disregard the growing sense of unease.  It could all be simply been the act of a longtime bachelor settling into the role of husband.  There was never any big suspicious thing to pounce on.  Not for four months.

It was the polo shirt that was the last straw.

*****

It took all of Lisa’s training not to drop the stack of files as she walked into Napoleon’s office.  Shock rippled through her body.  Napoleon Solo, the same Napoleon Solo who had once given an impassioned speech to Mr. Waverly about the importance of tailored suits and why auditing him about them was unjust, who had once gone undercover as an air conditioning repairman in a suit without once considering why that was incredibly suspicious, who had once told Lisa that there was no excuse not to look your best every day, sat at the main control panel wearing a light green polo shirt.  The only times Lisa had ever seen him at the office in anything remotely resembling casual was when the man was stuck in medical or was reporting directly from an assignment with no time to have changed.

“Are you okay, Ms. Rogers?” Napoleon asked, concerned.

Lisa forced herself to smile.  “Nothing.  Just…surprised.  That’s a…nice shirt.”

“Joan bought it for me.”  His smile instantly became dreamy.  It did that a lot when he talked about his wife.  It set Lisa’s teeth on edge.

Something had to be done.

*****

“This shouldn’t be my job,” Mark said for what had to have been the thousandth time since being named CEA.  April had stopped counting.  “This should be Kuryakin’s.”

April privately agreed.  Hell, everyone in Section Two agreed.  It was common knowledge that Napoleon hated paperwork.  He was a man of action.  It was only begrudgingly that he had ever done any of it.  Illya, on the other hand, filed written reports like clockwork.  When April had first started in New York, another enforcement agent, Jason, had told her that the whole reason Illya had been assigned as Napoleon’s partner in the first place was because it took a PhD to get through the mountain of paperwork that Section Two generated.  Looking at Mark’s desk, covered in a three foot thick pile of folders with the only cleared space being where she was perched on it, April was being to think Jason had not been joking.

Aloud, April said, “Mark, you deserve this promotion.  You’ve worked hard for it.”

“I was just doing my job,” Mark grumbled.  He leaned back from the desk and rubbed both hands on his face.  

“You should have been less competent, darling.”

“A mistake I won’t be repeating twice.”  Mark took one of his hands off his face and smiled slyly at her.  “Though I suppose there are some perks to getting the big office.”

Whatever those perks were, they had to wait, because that was the moment that Lisa Rogers decided to walk into Mark’s office with a whoosh of the door.  She planted herself in front of the desk.

“Congratulations, Miss Rogers, your request for time off has been approved,” Lisa said without any preamble.  “You’re leaving tonight.”

April and Mark shared a shocked look.  “Thank you?” April said.  “Where am I going?”

“Brazil.”  Lisa handed April a glossy brochure that proclaimed _Come to Brazil!_

“Oh good, I love Rio,” April murmured.  April flipped open the brochure to find a scrap of paper with the _Go to China_ written in Lisa’s neat hand.

“Am I going to Brazil too?” Mark asked.  He leaned over April’s shoulder to get a look at the paper.

“I’m afraid that the CEA’s duties are too important right now to give you any time off,” said Lisa.

April flipped the scrap of paper over to find another message.   _Bring Kuryakin back.  Kidnap him if need be._  She looked back up to Lisa and said as casually as possible, “Would you like to help me pack, Lisa?  I never know what sundresses to bring.”

“I would love too,” said Lisa.  April hopped off the desk.  The two women linked arms.

Over her shoulder, April called, “Goodbye Mark.”   _Take care of Napoleon._

“Have fun in Brazil,” he said back.  It sounded like _good luck_.

*****

“Want to tell me what this is about?” April said only after they had gotten back to the safety of her apartment.

“Solo moved to Staten Island,” Lisa said.

April blinked at the non sequitur.  That was old news around the office.  “I hear they have good schools,” she said carefully.

“April, Napoleon loves Manhattan,” continued Lisa.  

“People change when they get married,” April said.  As much as she disliked and distrusted Napoleon’s new bride, she did not want to do anything rash.  He was her boss and, more importantly, her friend.

“I know that, which is why you have to get Kuryakin here,” Lisa said.  She sat down on April’s orange couch with a sigh.  It made her seem oddly vulnerable.  “If it was only moving that would be one thing, but there are all of these little bits that don't make sense.  At least not to me.  Illya's the only person who knows Napoleon, the real Napoleon, well enough to be able to tell if this is something...”  Lisa trailed off.

“Sinister?” April supplied.

Lisa shrugged.  “Maybe?  It’s just he comes back from his honeymoon clearly unhappy about the whole thing and then the next he’s announcing that they’ve bought a house on Staten Island and is wearing polos.  People might change when they get married, but not overnight.  It doesn’t feel right.”

“Maybe Joan has seduced him with her extreme sexual prowess,” April joked.  At Lisa’s flat look she shook her head and said, “No, I agree that it feels off.  I’ll go to get Illya for you.”  There was a conversation April needed to have with the Russian anyway.  Both for his sake and Mark’s.

*****

Joan frowned at the blonde woman who entered the cafe after her.  She did not look familiar but she had been following Joan for at least the last seven blocks.  Thrush training had kicked in and Joan had detoured to the cafe to see if the woman really was after her or if Joan was imagining it.  The tinkle of the little bell over the cafe’s door confirmed that she was not just being paranoid.

Casually, Joan headed for the backroom of the cafe.  A stray thought about how the owners would get suspicious skittered quietly across her brain without sticking.

Joan rounded on the stranger, ready to put her field training to good use.  The other woman locked the door behind them.  She looked completely at ease.

“I don’t know who you think--”Joan started but the other woman cut her off.

“I’m only looking out for the greater good.”

The trigger was instantaneous.  It felt like waking up completely after being half asleep for days.

“Feeling more like yourself, dear?” Dr. Egret asked.  She guided Joan over to the table.  At Joan’s nod, Dr. Egret pulled out a notebook from her purse and said, “Your report.”

Joan dutifully relayed everything she had heard and seen about her husband since the last check in.  Most of it she felt was worthless, but Dr. Egret insisted on knowing all of the little details.

“Nothing about any ongoing affairs?”

Joan shook her head.  “Napoleon is very careful to not talk about work.”

Dr. Egret nodded and wrote something down.  “We’ll have to work on that.”  She looked up at Joan.  “Anything else of note?  Is your relationship improving?”

“No,” Joan said.  Her stomach twisted.  She did truly love Napoleon but he was not holding up his end of bargain.  “For the first couple days everything is fine, but it feels like the time between fights is decreasing.”

“Anything particular that is triggering them?”

“Nothing.  Everything.”  She paused.  “He talks about Kuryakin constantly,” Joan said.  It came out more bitter than she had meant it to.  Napoleon had not started comparing her to the blond--not aloud anyway--but there was a definite air that he would rather be with his friend than his wife.  Joan imitated her husband’s voice.  “‘Illya did this, Illya did that, Illya did some other damn thing!’  Maybe Illya’s who he should have married!”

Dr. Egret tapped the pen against her lips.  “Maybe I will have to arrange something for the man after all,” she murmured thoughtfully.

Joan did not get a chance to ask what Egret meant by that.  The other woman said the trigger phase and Joan was once more Joan Solo.

*****

The best part about China, April reflected as she walked across the city square, was how easy it was to find someone blond in a crowd.  She had been in the city for two days waiting for an opening.  Flirting with one of the Russian sailors had gotten her the information that Illya had a day of leave coming up.  And there he was, dressed in a white dress shirt and taking polaroid pictures of some statue.  

“Having fun playing tourist?” she asked in way of a greeting.

April was a little disappointed that Illya did not give a start, but he had apparently seen her coming.  Illya’s blue eyes scurvied the square before settling back on her.  “April, what an unexpected surprise.  What are you doing in China?  And without Mark, it seems.”

“I had some time off and thought I’d spend it visiting an old friend,” she said.  April flashed him a bright smile.  Illya did not smile back.

“What are you really doing here?” he asked.

April sighed.  “Is there somewhere private we can...catch up?”

*****

The light breeze off the water carried the smell of salt and oil.  Across the harbor was the ship that Illya was technically assigned to, though as Naval intelligence he rarely spent anytime on the actual water.  Illya leaned his forearms on the railing and gazed off at it.  This was one of his favorite spots in the city.  Most of the warehouses on this side of the harbor were abandoned, meaning that the view was also relatively private.  There was just enough pedestrian traffic behind them that they did not seem suspicious but could tell if anyone stopped to listen.

“What are you doing here, April?” Illya asked again.

April joined him at the rail and said softly, “You need to come back to New York.”

“I don’t work for our Uncle anymore.”

“Napoleon needs you,” she said.

The tight coils that had been sitting in Illya’s stomach ever since Napoleon had said the words “I would like you to meet Joan, my wife” back in San Francisco tightened.  Illya took a deep breath.  “I think he’s doing just fine without me.”

April snorted.  “Lisa’s worried about him.”

“She’s his assistant, that’s her job,” said Illya.

“Well, I’m worried about him,” she said.  “I don’t trust this new wife of his.  Ever since he got back from the honeymoon he’s been acting off, like he’s brainwashed or something.”

“People change when they get married.”  Illya kept his voice as even as possible.

“She got him to move to Staten Island!” April yelled.

Okay, that was a bit odd.  Napoleon loved living in Manhattan.  He had constantly ribbed Illya for choosing voluntarily to live in Brooklyn.  But it was not necessarily worrying.  Maybe Joan wanted children and thought Staten Island was a better place to raise them.  “I hear it is a good place for a family,” he said judiciously.

“And I suppose you’ll say that Napoleon wearing polo shirts to work is fine too!”

“He’s what?” Illya asked alarmed.  When they had first been partnered, Illya had worn polo shirts to work.  He had given them up after one too many “You are a secret agent, look like it” speeches from Napoleon.

“Wearing polos,” April repeated.  “It’s all little things, but it adds up to Napoleon not acting like himself.”

“That doesn’t mean brainwashing,” Illya said.

“It doesn’t,” April agreed, “but we can’t tell how worried to be because he plays a part on some level with everyone.”

Illya swallowed.  He could see exactly where this was going now.  “Everyone except me.”

“You see now why we need you back in New York,” she said.  April put her hand on his arm.

“I’m not with our Uncle,” Illya reminded her again.

“Hm,” April said.  She was looking at him more shrewdly now.  “That was the other thing I wanted to talk to you about.”

Behind them the warehouse exploded.  The force of it sent Illya over the side of the railing.  He hit the ice cold water.  There was a splash next to him that had to be April.

*****

Napoleon stood at his office window and rubbed his temples, trying to hold off the migraine that had been building all morning.  He had been getting a lot of them lately.  A thought that maybe he should see medical about them dissipated before it could fully form.

The whoosh of his office door made Napoleon turn from the window.  He smiled at his assistant.  “Yes, Ms. Rogers?”

Lisa was as professional as ever, but seemed haggard around the edges.  She did not smile back.  Instead of the the usual stack of files she brought him in the morning to look over, Lisa held just one, thin folder.  “Mr. Solo, you should sit down,” she said.

“That’s alright, I’ve been sitting all morning,” he replied.

“Napoleon, please sit,” Lisa said.  The brittleness in her voice brought Napoleon up short.  He nodded and sat.  She handed him the file.

The report was in Russian.  Napoleon had always thought he was decently proficient in the language, but his skill must have been poorer than he thought, because the words were failing to make any sense.  It was supposedly a report on a some warehouse exploding in a Chinese harbor.  It had been near the Russian military installation there.  The military casualties were listed by rank.  The first name was Vice Admiral Illya Nicolaivitch Kuryakin.

That was obviously wrong.  Illya could not be dead.  Illya was a stable presence in Napoleon’s life, or had been before the wedding.  The person who always had Napoleon’s back.  With random bits of knowledge that bubbled to the surface, ranging from chemistry to poetry.  Who made sure to send Napoleon postcards when they were assigned separate missions.  He was too important to be gone.  There were too many things left unsaid for Illya to be dead.

Further down the report was a list of civilians that had also perished.  April Dancer was the third name.  Napoleon felt that he should probably be upset by that, but he could not feel anything except a creeping numbness.  He probably should have been curious about why April had been in China but he did not care.  It could not possibly matter.  Illya was dead.

“How accurate is this report?” Napoleon asked Lisa.  The words came out evenly.  It sounded like someone else was saying them.

“Bodies were found,” she answered.  Her voice was huskier than normal.  It was the only outer sign that anything was amiss.

“Has Mr. Slate been informed of Miss Dancer’s death?” Napoleon asked.  

“Not yet,” said Lisa.

“Could you please go and tell him?”  As head of Section One, it should have been Napoleon’s job to do so, but he could not move.  Lisa simply nodded and left.  

Napoleon did not know how long he stared out the window.  It felt like both five minutes had passed and ten hours had gone by.  No calls came through.  Lisa must have told someone in communications not to disturb him.  She really was a gift.

There was a whooshing noise, and Napoleon looked up to find Joan walking into his office.  Her smile was sweet and innocent, her dress colorful and bright.  The visitors badge was pinned to her chest.  “I thought we could lunch together, sweetie,” she said.  Through his complete numbness Napoleon could only think one thing.

_I’ve made a terrible mistake._

****  
  



End file.
